The Movers
The big one is out of breath
rhubarb red
a heart attack waiting
to happen.
The smaller one is wiry
firing squad fierce
good with the
dolly.
Together
they smoke at the end
of a stone drive,
share a laugh.
Between loads
between women,
drenched in sweat
on the coldest day
of the year.
The movers will take their time,
no use hurrying.
They are paid by the hour
like the dishwasher
the bricklayer
the janitor
the
whore.